Free Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake Page B

place.”
    “How bad is the damage?”
    “Reasonable. I can do the repair on site, though it will probably take a day or two.”
    “What about your tools?”
    “They are in my coach which, with luck, should be here this evening.”
    “I have been invited to dine there tomorrow, you know.”
    “Then no doubt I may well see you.”
    “Tell me, my friend,” John asked, liking this Frenchman and feeling that his opinion would be worth consideration, “what is Sir Francis really like?”
    Dominique barked a laugh. “He is one of the most colourful characters of the age. He is utterly ruled by his prick, if you’ll forgive my being so forthright. He loves women and drinking above everything else. Do you know what Bubb Doddington said about him?”
    “No,” answered Samuel, leaning forward.
    “I heard this from my father-in-law who overheard the conversation in another room. He - that’s Doddington - said that Dashwood was like a public reservoir, laying his cock in every private family that has any place fit to receive it.”
    John laughed but Samuel guffawed joyously.
    “Oh, John,” he said, “you’re going to be hard put to it tomorrow.”
    “Indeed I am,” the Apothecary answered.
    Dominique looked surprised. “You obviously get on very well with your servant, monsieur.””
    “Yes,” said John, calming down, “I most certainly do.”

Chapter Eight

    T he following night, John Rawlings dressed very finely in a creation of succulent damson taffeta with a silver waistcoat embroidered with a million little stars in a shade of ripe plum. He set forth at exactly three-forty in the coach belonging to Pierre Langlois, currently in the ownership of his son-in-law. It had arrived on the previous evening - much to the delight of Dominique - and had gone round to the stableyard of the inn. But early the following morning the water gilder had set off in it carrying a long apron together with the tools of his trade. On his face he had had the most determined expression. He had returned, looking somewhat sour, at exactly half past three.
    “What’s the matter?” John had asked as he had met him in the downstairs lobby.
    “That bastard Arundel, he is a salaud .”
    “Why? What has he done?”
    “He owes me £700 for work I have carried out on his behalf. I have sent him bill after bill but all I get is vague promises and when I press him he becomes the noble aristocrat, too high and mighty to settle up. Furthermore he terrifies that child of his. She is scared out of her wits by him.”
    “Really? What gives you that impression?”
    “Something I overheard today. I’ll tell you of it another time. Now you must make haste.”
    John stepped into the coach gratefully, glad that Dominique had offered to lend it to him, delighted that he was not going to have to ride in his most elegant night clothes.
    He was set down at the front door in the colonnaded entrance, already lit with flaming torches set in sconces along the wall; all this despite the brightness of the day. He pealed the bell which was answered immediately by a footman.
    “Sir Francis is expecting you, sir. If you would follow me.” The servant led the way across the hall to a room directly opposite. Throwing it open he said, “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, my Lord,” in an extremely adenoidal voice.
    John stepped inside and hardly knew where to look first, so fine and splendid was everything about him. Immediately opposite where he was standing were three mighty arched windows giving splendid views of the lake and its little wooded islands. Above his head the ceiling was painted with a fresco depicting a meeting of the gods, the males with pieces of flowing cloak or discreetly raised knees hiding their genitalia, the women with arms draped decorously over their breasts. He was still gazing at it when a voice from a deep and comfortable chair said, “Good afternoon, sir.”
    The Apothecary dragged his attention back and gave a florid bow before